


Revenge of the Minstrels

by Bingo Bramble (VodkaAndMaple)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VodkaAndMaple/pseuds/Bingo%20Bramble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme: So I never thought I'd say this, but I sort of missed the minstrels in ACIII.</p><p>...okay, so that's a complete and utter lie, but I'd love to see how Connor, or Haytham and his Templar lackeys (or all of the above?) would react to minstrels running around Boston or New York or even one of the villages in the frontier.</p><p>What would happen if one cornered our touch-despising Connor?</p><p>Maybe Charles Lee is out doing Templar-y things and can't seem to lose his singing "friend"?</p><p>What would happen if one took a liking to Haytham and decided to serenade him--as he was trying to stealthily climb up a building?</p><p>Or what if one trailed Ziio all around the frontier as she tried to track down Haytham for a "meeting"?</p><p>Or...? Doesn't matter, just make it cracky and funny</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Connor Kenway/ Ratonhnhake:ton

**Author's Note:**

> Tried my best to write something worth reading. Not sure if others will find this amusing, but I enjoyed writing it! Those poor, poor characters.... :D
> 
> On another note, I'm taking requests if anyone's interested. To check what I'll write for just check my bookmark list. It might take me a while to actually do the writing, but it will happen.

Connor swung himself into a cartful of stiff hay just before his target, a possible Loyalist arms supplier, cast his sight around with suspicion. As the supplier turned to go down an alleyway, his Assassin follower unobtrusively slid next to an older man who seemed to be tuning some kind of white-man instrument.

Lute, spoken in Achilles’ gruff voice drifted through his mind as he gave the purposefully shaped wood a second glance: apparently the inherently boring and mind-numbing cultural lessons he’d had to endure had paid off in more ways than one. Who would have known?

The young man shifted closer to the brick walled corner as the…. minstrel?... stretched his arms almost ostentatiously and somehow ended up closer than before. The piercing whistle of a small bird sounded shrilly, and Connor ran a finger lightly over the sharp metal of his hatchet in slight annoyance as his target stopped to take a good, long gander at some wares. It would be so much more preferable if this business could be over and done with. Over and done with, and then he could sail out on the Aquila, enjoy the salt spray and easy lifestyle for a month, and see if crazy old man Peg Leg was right about his maps.

When it seemed that the supposed Loyalist supporter was finally going to meander on to his destination, the minstrel cradled his lute, stepped gaily in front of Connor with a strange flourish of an arm, and began to warble. As the first words left the man’s mouth he leant forward into Connor’s personal bubble. Connor, in turn, plastered himself to the bricks and mortar inconveniently just behind him, completely surprised, even with all of his training, by the strange singing sociopath.

_He wears a leather hood and leather coat_   
_He has sharp weapons aplenty_   
_He runs and he jumps and hides between others_   
_And follows his prey on foot and on boat_   
_(He’s creepy!)_

Connor paid only the slightest bit of his attention to the description, accurate enough for enemies, being shouted out for his target, and everyone and their mother to hear. There were more important things to be concerned and worrying about. Such as how he COULDN’T GET PAST THE MINSTREL!

Craning his head to the right, keeping one eye on the smiling singer, the Assassin looked behind in something approaching sheer desperation, not that he would ever admit such a thing even under torture, as the minstrel shuffled slightly closer. He uncharacteristically cursed under his breath as an uncommonly smooth surface met his wide-eyed and frenzied gaze. He tried to inch out to the side to escape, but the damned minstrel simply grinned toothy and wide, and stepped neatly into his path.

_It’s just like the honourable minstrels said_   
_In the years that now are long gone_   
_Of a man in a coat; a sharp knife in each hand_   
_And time spent with a cute beret man in bed_   
_(He’s creepy!)_

Connor let out a half-aborted growl and gave, what he fervently hoped was, a withering stare at the older man as he swung out his right hand and clapped the Assassin’s shoulder. It was only the lessons on manners and decorum that Achilles had shrieked about every second of every day that stopped his reflexive, and slightly longed for, retaliation.

“If you would kindly move out of my way, I would be most appreciative.” The half-Mohawk attempted to give out his most convincing and friendly smile, but it came out as more of a threatening baring of teeth than anything else.

The minstrel shook his head and merely kept on playing.

_I sing these songs to my best_   
_In a crowd of lambs I am a mocking flame_   
_Just like he was with the guests_   
_When he sang at a guards’ behest_

“If it is money that you are after, then I would gladly give some to you.” Connor pulled out a fist full of clinking gold pieces. “Here. Take these.”

The minstrel deftly avoided the insistent curled hand, to the exasperation of the young man, who was also beginning to sport an impressive headache, and extremely tense muscles. It was at the end of another stanza that Connor’s increasingly tenuous hold of his patience snapped, all thoughts of the completion of the mission discarded.

_This young man now seems to be upset_   
_His eyes are flint, and yet do water_   
_What he needs is a nice warm hug_   
_The best hug he’s ever had, I bet_   
_(He’s creepy!)_

The minstrel put the lute down and held out his arms invitingly. When Connor remained frozen, his eyes crinkled with a wide smile and he moved to embrace the living statue.

As the arms seemed to come closer in slow motion, Connor snapped out of his half-comatose state.

_“NEEP!”_ A strange, high-pitched sound left his mouth as the situation he was in made itself clear in less than a second. Connor pelted the gold in his tight fist at the minstrel’s general direction of his face, before giving the man a gangly shove out of the way.

“OI!” The minstrel yelled as he lost balance and landed roughly on the cobblestone ground. Connor didn’t pause to apologize, even though Achilles would have yelled at him for not doing so, and just high-tailed it out of there; the phantom feeling of arms and the ringing of awfully atrocious lyrics spurring him on ever faster.

The mission was a failure, but Connor didn’t really have a care for it anymore. He was going to spend the next month or two of his life on the Aquila and deal with absolutely nothing.


	2. Haytham Kenway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than Connor's, but Haytham is my baby so I guess it's to be expected.

The day had started out pleasantly enough; there had been no trouble with had by any of the younger Templars that usually needed help and constant direction, and his hair had decided to cooperate and go without a fight into its customary neat ponytail. Additionally, the ride out to Charlestown in the Frontier had been a pleasant, leisurely one. The weather was highly refreshing, but also agreeable, the trotting, rocking motion of his horse, Bess, was relaxing, not jarring and making his regrettably aging body ache. The simple fact that today he was on his own and didn’t have to make polite with anyone was, frankly, another bonus.

Bess carried him reliably into Charlestown without a fuss, and he alighted her in front a post with some hay by it. Tying her up and nudging the feed closer with a few careful pushes of a polished black boot, Haytham left to walk with purpose behind a large empty farmhouse. Some might think the best way to not garner attention would be to appear casual and unremarkable, but Haytham had learnt, over the years, that if he looked and acted as if he had a much better place to be sometime soon, then he was less likely to be held up. Most of the time, if a person was clearly suspicious and going to carry that knowledge to certain people, then he never gave them the chance to.

So it was with a clear and obvious purpose that he left the sight of anyone outside by going behind the red, half rundown building that was the farmhouse. He didn’t lean against the wall, although he did wish to. He was here to meet a possible future informant; convince them that the best path for them to take would be with the Templars. Haytham refused to appear too casual to be taken seriously; it was always better to put forward the impression that you were stalwart and reliable.

The contact also had the possibility of being entirely unreliable, and even possibly working for the Assassin Order. If that were the case, then they’d just have to be dealt with as quietly as possible. And used as an example of his displeasure with the Assassin’s, of who his son was an incompetent leader. It was with this caution that he kept a hand on his favourite loaded pistol as a woman in a tan dress holding a young boy leant up against the wall beside where he stood.

***

Back in Boston, after having met a strangely flustered and tense Charles, Haytham meandered down the streets with his hands warm in his coat pockets. There was no purpose to this walk, as would have been obvious to any observer. What was less obvious was that he was actually in a fairly good mood. There was no change or easing up on his firm uncompromising expression to suggest so but, to any who knew him well enough, his enjoyment was as plain as the cry of an upset child was loud. That is, very.

Indeed, Haytham quite honestly believed that there was nothing that could happen, short of the total obliteration of the Assassin Order, that could make his day any better.  
Or, conversely, I can’t think of a single solitary event or thing that could be upsetting in the slightest. Haytham allowed himself a softer glance towards some orphans before quickly moving on. As deplorable as it was that they had nowhere to go, their laughter was grating after a while. He did make a mental note, however, to find where they hid out at night and leave some furs for them. It was beginning to be the weather of colder nights, after all. And who knew what they would spend any coins he, or anyone else for that matter, gave them on? Probably something they didn’t actually need. No, it is much more reliable to just give them the items they actually do need instead.

A brightly dressed young man next caught his eye, simply because of how garish the cloth he wore was. A jester’s hat with large bells on each triangular end was upon his head, and those same big bells wore on his soft shoes. A close-fitting tunic and mismatched tights of bright, clashing colours and patterns finished off the outfit. As Haytham stopped and took a further look, he noticed, as he had been too busy being offended by the obscenely bright coloured clothing worn by a man close to his son’s own age to notice anything else before, that the man who worked in entertaining others was holding a lute and seemed just about to start playing.

With no love of the lute, the piano and violin being much more to his style, Haytham began to continue on his undirected way. He halted abruptly, though, when the bright man stopped right in front of his way. And with a pleasant smile nonetheless, as if the two of them were friends who chatted regularly.

“My friend!” So apparently they were friends, at least according to the fool who stood before him. “It is truly a wondrous day now that I have seen your face! If you would only give me your name, smile, and perhaps some time together to get to know each other, I would be a very happy man indeed! I am Trinculo!” The man, Trinculo, grinned without a care into the blank face of Haytham.

What is this man getting at? He cannot be seriously sending out an overture or proposing what I think he his. It’s simply preposterous!

“Sir—“

“Trinculo! I must insist you call me by name in that wondrously deep voice of yours!”

Of course you do. “Trinculo. I am Haytham Kenway—“

Trinculo opened his mouth excitedly to speak. Haytham continued on hurriedly to halt what he knew was going to happen.

“—and that does not give you permission to call me by my given name.” Trinculo’s answering pout was answer enough to Haytham’s previous suspicions, and reassured him that he’d most definitely made the right choice in speaking over any interruption. “I won’t simply smile because you demand it, and neither will I deign to spend some time with you simply because you also demand that. My time is a very precious thing, and right now I am quite busy doing other things; things that I know I enjoy to some extent. In saying that, I believe it is then a very good thing that I care not as to whether you are a ‘very happy man’ or not. Good day.”

The plan to simply sidestep Trinculo was thwarted by the younger man’s sheer tenacity and doggedness. Traits he would usually find admirable, but which were now working against him as the minstrel stepped merrily into his path once more.

“Come now! You won’t fool me with that rough exterior! I can tell that you’re definitely someone I could spend the rest of my life with underneath all of that gruff! I’m good at judging people, and I’ve judged you as absolutely perfect! There’s no two ways about it! You just need to leave your comfort zone and we’ll spend some time together. We’re entirely compatible, opposites attract you know, and you’ll see what I mean very quickly by that!” On the last word Trinculo waggled his eyebrows up and down enticingly. Haytham frowned and leaned forward; trying to crowd the younger man out. It didn’t seem to work as promptly as it usually did against those who were highly annoying. Strange, that. If anything, the bloody fool seemed to be lapping up the greater proximity between their bodies. Immediately Haytham backed away once more, watching as Trinculo blew a raspberry in joking retaliation.

“I think, perhaps, you need to work more on your ‘judging skills’. In no way am I… cuddly on the inside, as you seem to be suggesting. If anything, you will find nothing worth any of your time. Every bit of it is rough and disagreeable. Now I really must be going on my way. Don’t you have someone to entertain? Go do what you are paid for.”

Trinculo skipped after Haytham, who was attempting to stride away without much success.

“Mr Kenway! You mustn’t have such a low view of yourself!” Haytham rolled his eyes and abruptly turned left onto a different street. He was, unfortunately, followed. “It simply isn’t healthy! This is another example of why we’d do so well together: I can see all of the good inside of you! It radiates out of every part of you and is so very obvious to my eye!”

At that, Trinculo attempted to grab hold of Haytham’s right arm to stop the man. Haytham turned around and yanked out of the grasp.

“I have been polite! I have been obvious in my wish for you to leave me be! I have no wish to spend time alone with you, or even time with you when we’re around others! If you will not leave me alone, then I’ll simply have to go someplace where you can’t follow me! Now good day!”

Haytham used the rough and jutting bricks on the wall closest to their altercation and efficiently climbed his way up onto the roof. Not waiting to see if Trinculo was following after, firmly in the belief that he didn’t have the ability to, the Kenway began to traverse over the tops of the buildings with little difficulty. When he noticed the sound of bells following after, he turned to look in horror as Trinculo, somehow still carrying his lute, was himself jumping quickly between rooftops to keep up.

“Damn it all!” Haytham spun and, using every skill he’d ever learned from his father when he was still training to be an Assassin himself, attempted to lose the brightly coloured bastard. When the first strings of music reached his ears, he knew he had failed.

_When I saw him standing there_   
_Perusing the clothes that I wear_   
_A thought hit me like thunder_   
_The troubles tearing me asunder_   
_Would be no more, no more_   
_With his gorgeous face defying all law_

Haytham’s faced burned, and the only upside to his troubles was that there was no one who knew him witnessing the musical event.

_He is the one, the one I’ve been waiting for!_   
_He is the one, the one I’ve been waiting for!_   
_I’ll have no other, I love him so!_   
_He is no average, Average Joe!_

_We are opposites in every manner_   
_And if I had time I’d make a banner_   
_Of every difference, of every same_   
_While I chase him in this game!_   
_His eyes are brown, and his hair dark_   
_Muscles corded and, oh hark!_   
_For years I could trill better than a bird_   
_And still compliments would be all you heard!_   
_We are meant to be, you see!_   
_Yes we are meant to be, you see:_

Trinculo spun in a tight pirouette as he jumped over his next gap. Haytham, who had chanced a quick glance behind, whimpered as the chorus began anew.

_He is the one, the one I’ve been waiting for!_   
_He is the one, the one I’ve been waiting for!_   
_I’ll have no other, l love him so!_   
_He is no average, Average Joe!_

The lack of more houses in his racing path to some sort of freedom didn’t stop Haytham. The sight of sparkling blue water simply emboldened him once more. He landed almost awkwardly in his rush, but ignored the jarring in his ankles as he came up out of his roll. He pushed and shoved, ignoring the returned verbal abuse that was usually so infuriating, until he reached the end of the jetty. Still the tinkling sound of bells and strains of a lute reached his ears, and so he swan dived into the brine and began to swim out. He would wait out far away in the water and ruin his clothes and weaponry if he had to, but by Jove he was not going back on land until it was safe.

An alright plan, until he realised Trinculo had decided to pay the owner of a row-boat to help him follow and play the lute without getting it wet.

Oh God.


	3. Charles Lee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was really going to leave writing out this chapter until after my exams but it was not to be. I wrote this instead of studying the Cold War or Australian history 1900-1960, so we all know my exam is going to go well on Friday. This Friday.
> 
> I DON'T WANT TO STUDYYYYYYY
> 
> I'm so screwed.
> 
> On another note, the songs weren't created by me this time. They're children songs from www.livingvalues.net/songs3-7.html and if you want to hear them sung just click on the light green boxes titled Happy Children, These Little Hands, and The Happy Stars.
> 
> Was anyone else disappointed when Charles turned out to be some kind of crazy psycho in ACIII? I thought he was pretty cool in the beginning. Still, makes one think about moral ambiguity, which is always exciting.

Charles Lee, the most trusted Templar in Haytham’s order, smirked with amusement as he leaned the tiniest bit over the edge of the roof where he stood and watched Connor become more and more uncomfortable as the minstrel carried on. He couldn’t help but be pleased that he had helped this event unfold, with his sharp whistle warning the Loyalist arms dealer that he had a follower and that he should stop until help could come.

Charles’ shoulders began to shake with contained laughter as Connor’s paltry attempt at escape was foiled by a simple sidestep. It was so good to see the much lauded and supposed escape artist Assassin, whom had been a major pain in the backside of the Templars for some time now, be brought back down a peg or so into his rightful position. Just the thought of such a thing had kept Charles going when all seemed to be going wrong… and now it had been brought to life by a simple minstrel. To think that he had heard so many complaints about them from Hickey; this just proved the lascivious drunk was as much as a worthless imbecile as always. A change of clothes and monetary situation did not a changed man make.

“There was, and always will be, every conceivable type of person.” Charles murmured to himself thoughtfully. “But that does not mean that every conceivable type is desirable.”

It was truly a delight to watch the Assassin’s panicked scramble, and also quite telling. He would have to remember to make a mention of the dislike of touching. Any advantage over the scum was to be used, whether or not it was honourable to. The war between Templar and Assassin had never been said to be honourable, and now, in these times of opportunity, was not the time to begin such a thing.

He continued to watch until Connor made a run for safety. With the presence of new enforcements in the form of fresh baby-faced Templar hopefuls there was no more need for him to be support. Such a job would normally be beneath him, but the Templars had been… lacking in capable members lately. It just so happened that every medium-level lackey met with a strange Mohawk man whose face was obscured with a hood. 

The black haired man scoffed in disdain. _‘No guesses as to who the culprit could be…’_

Climbing down from the roof was a clumsy chore. Silencing the obnoxious giggling of the orphans after his painfully embarrassing descent with a particularly violent grin, Charles walked sedately down the somewhat busy streets; his next order of business could be attended to without rush. 

The thought of the culling of the Order that had been taking place was one that, on nights he was not as firm in his belief of Haytham, even though such a thing seemed blasphemous, chilled his very bones. For all that he knew they would succeed, the death of Johnson had put things into perspective. When the report came back he had expressed his dismay just like the rest and his reverence of the intelligent man’s last words, but privately had vowed to himself that, in the unthinkable did happen, he would not speak a word and would leave the world with his dignity intact. He would not grovel.

But that was neither here nor there. Next on his list was to oversee the delivery of a shipment of artillery and armaments in Boston. As the salty smell of sea spray met his senses, he noticed a strange gathering of young children right next to the ship that was his destination.

_‘Some kind of diversion?’_ Charles thought to himself with a wary frown. _‘Is that man an Assassin? Are his bright clothes and instrument a ploy to throw me off?’_

The young children were giggling and shoving each other; excitedly shouting intelligibly towards a man in the centre of their little group. Somehow this thin, lanky figure understood what was being said, because he began to sing a jaunty children’s song, which made them young group gleefully join in, that Charles remembered vaguely from his days as a young boy. He could feel his muscles itching to do the accompanying moves just like the young ones were.

_Do you see the happy children_   
_Getting up to dance around_  
 _All they want is to be happy_   
_And to swing and swing around_  
 _Then reach down and touch your toes_  
 _And touch your knees and touch your nose_  
 _Clap your hands and shake them out_  
 _Stand upright and turn around_  
 _Do you see the happy children_  
 _Getting up to dance around_  
 _All they want is to be happy_  
 _And to swing and swing around_

Charles visibly shook himself out of his reverie and steadfastly ignored the impromptu singing group to get started on his job. It would not do to be distracted.

Crate upon crate began to be carried down the plank of wood acting as a temporary bridge. His flawless memory of the checklist helped in his mental marking off of goods.

Musket rounds? Check.

Bandages? Check.  
Pistol rounds? Check.

_‘Surely there was somewhere else this spectacle could take place?’_ His concentration was suffering under the cheerful high-pitched songs that didn’t seem to stop. _‘Even an Assassin wouldn’t be able to put up with this for a mission.’_

Saber swords? Charles glared at some sailors who were struggling with the last of the swords. Check.

A short weight hit him on the back of his legs, causing him to stumble forwards. His threatening snarl as he spun around failed in the sheer brightness of the minstrel’s teeth.

“Sorry abou’ tha’; kid jus’ go’ exci’ed, is all.” The red headed girl smiled up at Charles as the minstrel patted her companionably on he shoulder.

“Apology accepted.” Charles was prepared to leave it at that, but it seemed it was not to be.

The minstrel readjusted his hold on his lute. “Name’s William. This migh’ sound crazy, bu’ you seemed real in ma song earlier. Wan’ join?”

The audience of the children, who were possible future Templars, curbed his more rude replies. He had no time for this! He still needed to finish off here, and then move on to supervising its path into the right hands. It was with pursed lips that he declined.

“I Couldn’t possibly.”

Next thing he knew, he was uncomfortably close to this- this William and stuck in the throng of children. Had the group become larger?

“Nonsense! Ya jus’ need le’ loose.” And then he began to sing once more with his choir of demented followers.

_I am happy I am happy_  
 _I am a star_  
 _I am happy I am happy_  
 _I am a star_   
_I am happy to remember_  
 _To sparkle forever_  
 _I am happy I am happy_  
 _I’m a star_  
 _I give my love to everyone_  
 _I give it from my heart_  
 _I give my sparkle to everyone_  
 _And they can sparkle too_  
 _I am happy I am happy_  
 _I am a star_  
 _I am happy I am happy_  
 _I am a star_

They kept looking at Charles as if expecting him to suddenly burst into song and join in. It wasn’t going to happen. He had his dignity and his pride, and he would not lower himself to singing and dancing in the street. To do such a thing would be humiliating for himself, with the stares of passing adults already leaving scorching trails travelling upon his skin. Not only that, but he was second-in-command within the Templar Order! Hand picked by Grand Master Haytham Kenway himself! To join in would humiliate himself, true, but it would be nothing to the humiliation he would be opening the Templar Order and Master Haytham up to.

He began to walk away without another thought, his mind already turning to distraction with plans and soldiers. It was this excuse he told a strangely red, flustered, and recently dry Haytham later when asked how he was caught so off guard and taken ‘hostage’ for the rest of the day, and quite a bit of the evening.

A stampede of children charged him from behind, quickly and efficiently tripping Charles and sitting on his torso and limbs when he tried to sit up. William bounded over to where his miniature, but completely dedicated, army had subdued their target. One child was no problem, but when multiple sit on a person and refuse to make things easy, then it’s almost impossible for that person to get up.

“No need ‘a leave! We shall pu’ a smile on ya face!”

Charles’ felt a shiver go down his spine at the promise in the man’s voice. Although he had tried to get up it seemed he had been bested. By children. This was more humiliating than just simply singing would have ever been. The chuckles of sailors met his burning ears and he sneered at the minstrel.

_These little hands what can they do_   
_They can paint a picture for mummy and for you_   
_These little hands what can they do_   
_They can hug you and show I love you_   
_These little hands what can they do_

Fingers began to dance around his chest, searching out tender spots. The red haired girl from earlier was the one who hit the jackpot; hitting a particularly ticklish spot on his ribs. That was that. He was gone.

_They can play the drums one and two_   
_These little hands what can they do_   
_They can blow a kiss to show I love you_   
_These little hands what can they do_   
_They can gently stroke your cheek and wave hello_

Tiny little hands attacked relentlessly; his chuckles turned into peals of laughter. He closed his eyes as his cheeks began to ache so that he wouldn’t have to look at William’s bright smile. Breathlessly he begged them to stop, and they did not.

They didn’t stop for a while, actually. Not that he told Haytham that.


	4. Kaniehti:io/Ziio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIIIIVE
> 
> Bet the general consensus was that I'd given up on this little baby? Never! Actually, the long break was due to a number of things (which I will now list because I'm sure you're all just that interested in my life). First, I was preparing to take the BIG EXAMS (cue spooky music) and graduate my final year of high school. At the same time (because I'm crazy and don't think about consequences) I partook in another year of NaNoWriMo. Then after school was over, and I was considered free, I was busy having driving lessons almost every day to be ready for my driver's test which was two days before Christmas. After that was Christmas itself, and then a long family holiday where there is no internet. Next was the nerves of waiting to see if I was accepted into my Uni of choice. Then planning for my first ever semester of Uni. Then going through that semester and realising that it's just as exhausting as people said it world be.
> 
> This all compounded into me not working at all on Revenge of the Minstrels until just recently. That and the fact that I avoided other duties (such as writing) in my free time.
> 
> But have at this new chapter (which I hope is amusing to read), and bask in the knowledge that the second part to Ziio's chapter is coming along shortly. It's all written out and just waiting to be typed up.
> 
> And for those who are interested: I passed my exams with flying colours (and the highest in my family which my competitive streak is still super chuffed about), I managed over 50'000 words for NaNo, I passed my driving test with only a single point deducted, was accepted into my Uni of choice, and am now at the start of my second semester.

Sometimes, Ziio couldn’t believe that, for all of the Great Inventions That You Savages Couldn’t Possibly Invent, the supposedly better-than-thou white men had yet to come up with something that was actually needed. Such as a tiny portable device that would allow her to contact another person immediately no matter where they were. That way she wouldn’t have to spend her own precious time scouring through the Frontier to find the damned man who called himself Haytham Kenway.

His good looks and sophisticated, biting sarcasm only made up for the fact that he was an often caustic man. An asshole, if you will. Corded muscled and tightly fitted clothing did not make up for the fact that he was never where he said he would be.

_Worse than an errant child trying to avoid chores_ , Ziio thought uncharitably as she evaded a pack of hungry wolves.

To be honest it was not only her missing lover that was steadily grinding down on her nerves and patience. She had noticed, some time back, the she could hear sounds other than the encompassing nature around her. With her keen sense of smell the relaxing aroma of crackling leaves and clean air was disrupted by the tang of sweat and hair oil similar to what Haytham used. Her keen eyesight, instead of finding nothing but pant life and the occasional animal when she glanced behind, found bright flashes of colour quite that were most certainly out of place. Unless one had perhaps eaten those small mushrooms that grew an hour’s trek out of the village. Which she hadn’t.

Well. Not today at any rate.

Her first thought on these titbits of information was that she was being followed. The pathetic, and therefore highly amusing, bumbling that she could hear supported this. It could have been Haytham, and in fact she really wished it was because she was sick of looking for his sorry, if delectable, ass. There was, however, one particular clue that, well, clued her in on her mysterious pursuer most certainly _not_ being Haytham.

The singing. Oh the _singing_ , if it could really be called that. Perhaps if the singer was not running after her through untamed nature it would be acceptable. But he was not standing still in Boston with breath to spare; he was gallivanting around with no breath at all. And so the ‘melodious singing’ was instead shaky, breathy warbling interspersed with panted swearing and yelps of pain.

Haytham was many things, but he was certainly not a tenor.

Ziio had been perfectly happy to just let the pursuing singer stumble after her as she went through increasingly difficult thickets of brush and steep hills. At the baying of the wolves that she had avoided easily signalling them going for another, far weaker, prey she quickly halted. Sighing at a loud shriek, she turned back to help out the singer.

_Let it not be said that I never think of others_ , she thought with a roll of her eyes. _Although, really, it would make sense to be prepared and understand the probable dangers if you’re going to go gallivanting around the Frontier._

It was quick work to dispatch the persistent wolves. A short, sharp blade through their torso or neck led to kills that were quick and clean. She muttered a quick prayer for the pack.

“Ah! Thank you milady! I’m afraid I was not prepared to be set upon by wolves. You are a most resourceful target.”

Ziio turned to the relatively unscathed, except for some of his bright plumage (and to be honest the wolves were doing everyone a favour for that), man with a raised eyebrow. He was of average build, of average height, and of average looks.

Perhaps that is why he goes to such great lengths for attention?

“I am Joseph, known as Joe to my friends. I am gladdened and relieved that you did not leave me to your wolves.”

Ziio snorted. Around Haytham such an act would make him purse his lips and begin a lecture on propriety. Ziio would then tell him where he could shove propriety. A particularly unforgiving glare until he huffed and quieted was also a working alternative.

Average Joseph just ignored it.

“They were not my wolves. Wolves are not anyone’s to own. You were simply loud enough to gain their attention.”

Joseph preened and his cheeks reddened. Ziio watched, amused, as the flush travelled to the man’s ears and down his neck. Its own bright colour reminded her of some of the berries that grew near bodies of water.

“Why were you following me?”

_One of the mysterious enemy that Haytham mutters about when he thinks I’m not listening? I did not take him seriously but perhaps…_ She caressed the bloodied weapon she was still carrying; it’s sharp edge giving her comfort.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.”

Ziio raised her blade and took a threatening step forward. Joseph scrambled backwards, narrowly avoiding tripping over the body of one of the wolves.

“Wait! Wait! It’s not that I don’t want to tell you!”

Ziio lowered her weapon. “Speak.”

Joseph deepened his voice. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.” He broke off into childish giggles, but stopped when she raised a displeased eyebrow.

“Yes, right, of course.” Joseph offered a tiny smile in supplication. “I don’t have the clearance or authority to tell you.” His voice quieted to a whisper. “I also don’t want to risk the wrath of my Fellowship if I tell you anyway. Death would, most likely, be more merciful.”

A sigh left Ziio. And to think all she had planned to do when she got ready for the day was to find Haytham.

“What can you tell me about your Fellowship?”

Joseph glanced around nervously. Ziio only just held back her amusement, and slight exasperation, at how twitchy the man was. There was no one around except for them and a few dead wolves. She would have known if it were otherwise.

The dead wolves, at least, really set the scene.

“I can’t tell you much.” Again Joseph spoke in hushed tones. “I really shouldn’t be telling you anything at all, but I owe you my life. It would be dishonourable by myself and my Fellowship to not recognise that.”

Ziio almost couldn’t believe how ridiculously serious things were.

Joseph unlatched a beaded bracelet and held it out for her to take. Always a fan of free things, and also because Joseph was treating the act as highly significant, she took it and put it on her own wrist.

Woo. Free stuff.

“Find where my Fellowship gathers. Show our leader the bracelet and, if you’re lucky, he’ll answer any questions you may have.” Joseph bowed with a flourish. “I will take my leave now, milady.”

Ziio watched as Joseph took off quickly, as if he expected her to run after him. She admired the bracelet, listening to the sounds of the strange singing man crashing through the woods. With how loud he was being it probably wouldn’t take too long before another wolf pack set upon him.

_Or a bobcat._ She mused. _Possibly even a jaguar._

An amazingly shrill shriek echoed.

_Damn conscience. Damn singing man. Damn Haytham. You’re all headaches._

Ziio took after Joseph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I mentioned this earlier but Fun Fact: The minstrel called Trinculo got his name from a humorous character in Shakespeare's The Tempest. At the time of writing that chapter we had just finished reading it in Lit class, as well as watching the film. I liked the character enough to borrow the name. ~The More You Know~
> 
> Also, there's a bit of a joke with calling this minstrel Joseph, nickname Joe. See if you can get it? :)


	5. Kaniehti:io/Ziio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! The last chapter of the prompt... That's pretty cool, right?  
> I've got a couple of ideas floating around for a continuation, mainly Hickey, but for now I'll mark this bad baby as complete.
> 
> Thank you to all of those who stuck around, and to all of those who will hopefully read this in the future.  
> If you smiled even once during these, then my job here is done. Have a cold drink of whatever on me.
> 
> On another tangent; I typed this up while at Uni. I feel so studious except I'm not. I'm really thirsty; where is the water around here?

Ziio waits two weeks. It is not because she is too busy to pursue trivialities, because she had often found herself with time to spare. It is also not because she had difficulty in pinpointing where the singer’s strange Fellowship met every second night.

In all honesty the meeting point, a large campfire gathering in front of a perpetually empty log cabin, had been so easy to find that she had spent the better part of the two weeks thinking it had to be a trap of some kind. She’d had no idea, really, why the singer’s allies might have wanted to lay a trap for her. It had just all seemed too easy. All she’d done was escort Joseph until they’d reached civilization. Ziio had bid him farewell, and then continued to shadow the man at a distance.

The seriousness in his eyes when he spoke of his Fellowship had made her think of them as an ominous body pulling strings in the dark. Following the singer for the rest of the day and finding the location of the meetings before it even became evening had seemed out of place.

But no. Her original assessment of the singer and Fellowship being harmless proved true.

Well. Mostly harmless. If the entire group warbled atrociously at the same time they would probably manage to deafen someone. And if they also wore their brightest, most garish colours then they’d most definitely blind a few fleeing onlookers.

At the beginning of the third week Ziio decided that it was probably about time to have the conclusion to this strangeness and set off for the Fellowship’s campsite. She reached it in no time at all, interrupting some kind of ritual.

Ziio stood tall as the leader, recognisable by has flowing robes and heavily bejewelled bracelet, tried to recover from the shock of a person falling from previously empty trees.

“Bah—Baba—I—“, sputtered the old man. “Just what—I—huh—“.

A quick glance revealed that most of the other men, for the entire group was made of males and what the hell was wrong with there being a few females for diversity’s sake, were in a similar state of shock. The only ones seemingly unaffected were a few young teenagers staring at her with awe, and an average man who cleared his throat; casually covering his bare wrist.

“Tree and—what—how—I just—“, continued the bewildered leader.

 _‘At least he has progressed to complete words now.’_ Thought Ziio. _‘If I wait another five years maybe we’ll even have a full sentence.’_

Still, she wanted things done and so decided to be nice, maybe gently prompt the man along. She was very quickly approaching this year’s quota of niceties. 

She held up her beaded bracelet. “One of your members gave this to me,” Ziio resolutely kept her gaze away from Joseph, who had startled like a young deer. “And said that I would find answers as to why he was following me around the Frontier. Singing.”

A thick silence descended over the campsite. The grown men were taking her intrusion seriously, trading looks with each other and waiting for their robed leader to speak talk his talk. Sorry; wisdom. Even the teenagers, who had begun to nudge each other into climbing a tree, were still and quiet.

“You seek answers, child? And come into our midst bearing our mark, no less.” The old men held out his arms to the brightly-clothed men beseechingly. “Who am I to turn down one who is curious?”

A surly teenager stepped forward. As he spoke he flicked his particularly long fringe out of his eyes and by the Spirits did Ziio want to cut it off.

“But Maestro,” His voice was deep; out of place on his wiry frame. “You always say that we must never share information with outsiders. Are you going to go against such an edict now?”

Another teenager spoke. “Ah, you are always such a downer, Danny.”

The surly teen’s firm “It’s Daniel” went unnoticed.

“I think, Maestro, that she has the bracelet for some reason and that, because she is wearing it, can’t truly be classified as an outsider.”

Ziio nodded in agreement.

The old man sighed deeply. “I hear your view, my brothers, and have reached a decision.” He turned back to Ziio. “Sit with us, child, and I shall do my best to enlighten you.”

“But Maestro!” Shouted Daniel. “She—“

“Ah! Ah!” The maestro held up a hand. “Who is it that wears the robe, Danny?”

The teen grimaced.

“Who wears the robe?”

“You do Maestro…”

“And that means, Danny?”

Daniel crossed his arms. “It means that what you say is what goes.”

The old man clapped his hands together jovially. “Exactly Danny!”

“It’s Daniel.”

“Yes, yes, of course Danny.”

Ziio sat near the campfire next to a grinning teenager. The old man sat opposite her on the other side of the fire; his figure partially obscured by the rising smoke. The others gathered around them, either listening in or continuing their own conversations.

“Why you were being followed is quite simple really. We often train our recruits by having them follow a particularly difficult person. Once they manage to do that and sing perfectly at the same time they are another step closer to being fully accepted into the Fellowship. It was nothing personal.”

Ziio nodded. “Why the singing? What is so important about it?”

The old man’s eyes widened comically. “Isn’t it obvious? We are minstrels! Our Fellowship is a descendant of the original Order of Minstrels that begun in the 1400s. It is our job to—no! It is _more_ than just a job or duty. It is _fate!_ It is _destiny!_ ”

Ziio raised an eyebrow at the passion that the leader was exhibiting. Some people just really liked music, she supposed.

As the Maestro recovered from his feelings, the cheerful teen beside her leant closer with a shy smile.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Ka... Kanee...”

“Kaniehti:io.”

“Right. Sorry. I was just wondering if you could tell me something...”

Ziio glanced at the old man. He looked as if his mind would be elsewhere for quite some time.

“Your question?” She asked, turning her attention back.

“That man you often meet up with... Haytham? You’re involved with him, right?”

“He’s lucky enough to be, yes.”

The young man let out a surprised laugh. “Not many realise that you have a funny bone do they?” He cleared his throat but hesitated in speaking again.

Born perceptive, the light rosy hue that danced a little jig over his freckled nose told her all she needed to know.

“His clothes sit quite nicely on him don’t they?”

The teenager stilled and searched her face. Finding whatever it was he was looking for, he grinned toothily. “If only he smiled more often, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think the two of them then discuss the merits of Haytham's arms in a tight uniform versus casual shirt with rolled up sleeves.
> 
> Also: That cheerful teen is someone we all know and love; Trinculo!


End file.
